


Like a Spark of the Wick

by sugarspuncoeurls



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Female Character of Color, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarspuncoeurls/pseuds/sugarspuncoeurls
Summary: “Fire is a being of the Father, the Sun. One who walks its path is one who dares to walk at His side, fearful of neither danger nor death. It is a title given to those believed to be exceptionally brave.”Then she shrugs. “Or exceedingly stupid.” Her gaze on him narrows slightly, and she smiles again, the amusement this time clear as day on her pretty face. “Sometimes both.”An enlightening conversation by candlelight, on the eve of revolution.
Relationships: Hien Rijin & Warrior of Light, Hien Rijin/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Hien Rijin x WoL Recommendations





	Like a Spark of the Wick

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Aaaaand we're back! Another pre-relationship fic for your reading pleasure, because I cannot seem to write these two chronologically to save my life. I get an itch, I scratch it. This baby was actually on the backburner long enough for me to forget about it lol, but in struggling with another fic, I found it, finished and polished it, and actually liked it, so here we are! As always, feedback is appreciated, and I hope y'all enjoy!

She does not drink. Two half-filled ochoko out of six emptied flasks of sake, and it is no wonder that she is the only one of them still sitting with perfect poise; even Yugiri succumbed somewhat to her own thrice-refilled cup, unable as she was to resist her lord’s affable insistence. She has since escaped topside, both to clear her head and maintain her vigilance over the Fierce. Gosetsu is a long-lost cause; three out of their six bottles were his alone, and he hoarded them jealously, one downed in time with each impassioned speech until he had little else to say but half-muttered ramblings that reminded Hien distinctly of his age. “Old men should be careful in their cups,” he japed, knowing his mentor would take it as a challenge. Which he did, and met it by grabbing the mostly-filled remainder of a fourth bottle and swallowing as if it were water from a stream and not, in fact, some of their best, boldest bold, kept hidden in cellars buried right under the Empire’s nose, one of a hundred small, dogged defiances. Hien himself has only consumed spirits of similar strength on the Steppe; and he admits, the Xaela’s may have been a touch stronger.

Regardless, all of them have been feeling the effects, save one. He surreptitiously chances a glance out of the corner of his eye, curious to see if it still holds true.

Or not surreptitiously at all. Perhaps he is actually deeper in his own cups than he thought, because suddenly, the Warrior of the West – as his people have apparently taken to calling her – is meeting his gaze, one eyebrow lifted. “Yes?” she asks plainly. Hien smiles.

“Merely wondering if you are enjoying the fruits of our labor.” He grabs one of the porcelain bottles from where they rest at the center of their small table near their only immediate source of light: a single, simple candle. “Would you like more?” he offers, noting the mostly-full ochoko cradled in her palm, its pale coloring a fetching match to the scales marking the back of her deep brown hand.

Odzaya eyes the bottle, blank-faced but for a lightly-raised brow. Then, with a modest upturn of her hand and head, she half empties her cup, the wine slowly disappearing past her lips. “Sure,” she answers after a subtle out-blow of breath, and sets the saucer down near him.

Hien grins as he pours for her. “A smart move, if I may say so. This brew in particular is quite strong.” As if in agreement, Gosetsu lets out a loud, rumbling snore. Odzaya’s mouth quirks upward.

“It is good,” she compliments, as she daintily retakes the cup into her hands. And makes no motion to drink it.

“Do such spirits exist in the west?” he asks, pouring another round for himself. Odzaya shrugs.

“I am not the one to ask. I tend to avoid most of them.”

As he guessed. Hien grins. “You are one to keeps her wits about her, then?” She makes a noncommittal noise in reply, though her smile teases upward a little more.

“Preferably.”

“Well,” he begins, and lifts his ochoko as he leans forward, “on behalf of my people, let me say that I am beyond flattered that our brew is appealing to your palate,” he says. “And on behalf of myself, that my khagun feels comfortable enough in my presence to allow her keen wits a respite.”

Indeed, if they even are. They certainly do not seem to be as Odzaya huffs something that sounds like a laugh and raises her cup in tandem, only to down another half and no more. She has had how many now? Three in total, over the course of nearly as many bells. As many as Yugiri, technically, who is also not a drinker. Being of somewhat similar build, one would think she would have begun feeling the effects at least somewhat.

And yet, after another subtle sigh, the Raen woman maintains impeccable composure, resting her chin in her other hand and eyeing the top of Gosetsu’s head where it weighs down their table, almost too close to the candle’s lit wick. “Is he comatose?” she asks abruptly, and shoots him a questioning look. Hien pauses in his observations to chuckle.

“‘Twould be a relief if he were; perhaps then he could receive proper rest, and stop obsessing so much over past regrets and so-called failings.” They will kill him more surely than any enemy blade. Hien leans back on his stool, contemplative, the creak of the wood echoing throughout the cavern. “Tis why I suggested we indulge, and egged him on to continue by inviting you and Yugiri to join us. He drinks more readily when with company. And, coincidentally, the more he drinks, the better he sleeps.” He grins at her lifted brow. “An unorthodox strategy and one I rarely employ, at the least for the sake of his liver, but one that has served me well in the past.”

Her eyebrow drops only minimally; the healer in her, perhaps, taking concern despite his attempt at assurance. Then she smiles again, as if amused. “You are rather unorthodox,” she muses aloud, her quiet tone suggesting it is almost to herself.

“Am I?” he asks, tilting his head in genuine inquiry, only to quickly right it as his equilibrium begins to falter. Odzaya looks at him, seeming as if to ponder, before she continues.

“The name you were given on the Steppe. ‘Fire Walker’. It is an acknowledgment, a marker delineating your penchant for the unexpected.”

“Is that what it means?” Honestly, he never took the time to truly consider, beyond simply assuming it to be at least mildly insulting in some way. So that was its meaning, then.

Odzaya nods once in confirmation. “Fire is a being of the Father, the Sun. One who walks its path is one who dares to walk at His side, fearful of neither danger nor death. It is a title given to those believed to be exceptionally brave.”

Then she shrugs. “Or exceedingly stupid.” Her gaze on him narrows slightly, and she smiles again, the amusement this time clear as day on her pretty face. “Sometimes both.”

Hien gives thanks to the Kami for the sake that is currently running through his veins; it means there is none left in his mouth, and therefore none being spewed across the table as he blinks, and then nearly loses himself to laughter. He also gives thanks for his stool; it allows for purchase, however precarious, as his balance tilts again, dizzyingly, and he threatens to tumble to the floor in his fit. He still seems likely to fall, truthfully, at least until Odzaya saves him and his dignity by way of her own (amazingly non-drunken) reflexes. Hien startles quiet at the heat of her hand, like a brand, suddenly clutched to his bare shoulder, angling him back into his seat, the other hovering over his mouth, poised, no doubt, to shut his trap and prevent him from disturbing their comrades (always thinking of the small things, he observes, recalling the sight of her expertly rearranging the Leveilleur twins’ slumbering forms so as to avoid discomfort come the morn). When he follows the path of her arm, he finds her standing, both eyebrows lifted above a wide, intensely red-eyed gaze.

And then, suddenly, she is the one succumbing to laughter, a bright, rasping thing that he can only describe in his state as mildly enchanting, even subdued as it is. Those eyes crinkle at their corners, teeth gleaming oh-so-briefly from between wide, full lips. Her palm solidifies even more on his shoulder as she presses down slightly, ensuring he won’t topple again, before she finally steps back. “See?” she says, still clearly amused. “Fire Walker.”

Hien grins. “Mayhaps there is some truth to it.”

Odzaya huffs another near-silent laugh. “Mayhaps,” she echoes, and goes to return to her chair, swaying ever-so-slightly. Her tail periodically shifts as she goes, like the rudder on a rocking boat.

Aha. Hien’s smile widens at the sight, though he tries to school his expression as she sinks back onto her own stool, another of those mellow sighs coming out as she does. When their eyes meet once more, she blinks slowly.

“I am not drunk,” she says, as if she has read his thoughts.

“Of course not,” he agrees, grinning again, tickled in a way he blames on the wine. “Merely weary, I would guess. Mayhaps it is time you retired?” Lack of windows notwithstanding, he suspects morning is not terribly far off. They should all be turning in, and yet...he looks down at his ochoko.

Odzaya once more leans on the table, her chin coming to rest upon her upturned palm. She eyes him, and he gets the distinct impression she is reading his mind once more. “You plan to continue?” She drops her gaze briefly to indicate the remaining flasks near Gosetsu’s head. “Alone?”

She caught the phrasing of his suggestion, then. Hien casually shrugs one shoulder. “For a time.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Really?”

Hien chuckles. “Worried about my liver now, are you, friend?”

“Wondering if you are planning to become so inebriated that you will not remember issuing the order to destroy your own home on the morrow.”

The Warrior of Light could be a blunt one; he noted it some time ago, watching her dealings with her Scions, as well as the Xaela. The way she carried herself – modestly, almost conservatively – belied a tongue that could, at a moment’s notice, move with surprising impunity.

He likes it, and responds by smiling easily. “Would you judge me?” he asks, finding himself curious.

Odzaya lifts her own shoulder, looking down at the table. “I cannot. The Steppe tribes are largely nomadic, as you know; most of us have no concept of a permanent home beyond the land itself. Even in Eorzea, I tend not to settle in one place too long.” She pauses, her mouth pursed, as if weighing her tongue and the words upon it. “I do, however,” she continues, quietly, “understand ties, the connections one can make to a place, and the difficulty in seeing those ties undone, by whatever means.” She pauses, then looks at him. “I imagine it would be worse, having to undo them yourself.”

Aye, could speak with impunity. But never seemed to forgo care.

Hien remains silent for a time, thinking on her words, before he meets her gaze. “May I confide in you for an indulgent moment, my friend?” he asks softly.

Those red eyes widen slightly, but eventually, Odzaya nods. Almost imperceptibly shifts, as well, as if to show he has her attention. His smile deepens.

“I do not mourn Doma Castle,” he admits. “It was my home, yes, for all of my six and twenty years, and because of that, it has indisputable sentimental value. It is the home of my ancestors; every square inch has a story, every room an entire history, and I spent my growing years being told them all by my parents and tutors.” He chuckles. “I never cared for them much, truth be told. They were fascinating and inspiring tales, to be sure, but only that: tales. Read back far enough, and your great-grandsire becomes more a figure of ancient legend, rather than someone whose lap you once sat in, though apparently I did. No, I much preferred seeing the history being made by my father and mother, who I could see and touch. That, and daydreaming about the lines I would add to our storied annals.”

Odzaya smiles slightly. “A high-flier, then.” Hien laughs.

“Quite so! And rather doggedly, if the frustrations of my teachers were anything to go by. However much I truly enjoyed the literary pursuit of knowledge, I still preferred a bokken in my hand over a book.” By now, the wine is well enough into his system to feel less like a hindrance burning through his veins and more like a soother warming him from the inside out, eliminating the cavern’s cool draft. He sighs and sinks further into his chair, his gaze finding the high stone ceiling. “I would dream of chasing the Empire back across our borders, of returning home victorious at my father and fellow samurai’s sides. I would dream of inheriting the throne and continuing my parents’ legacy, and implementing policies to make our people’s lives easier; of marrying and raising children – more than one, mind you, as I always wanted siblings to play with, but never received any – and giving them a history to take pride in, stories to inspire them.”

So many dreams, locked away in that palace, and hardly just his own. He counts them among the stalactites piercing down from that cavernous ceiling, substitutes for the stars he cannot see.

“Losing the past will hurt, aye. The books, the scrolls, the paintings, the tales. But it is the future of that place, my future, the future I imagined, for which I truly mourn.” He sighs again, and knows it is bittersweet. “Twas a foundation for much I wished to build, that castle; it will be hard to be without it, however worth its loss, a hundred times over, my people’s futures are.”

Silence reigns for what feels like an age, exposed as his heart and mind now are, alcohol still thrumming through his blood like a pulse. Somehow, though, with the Warrior of the West, of all people, on the receiving end, it feels freeing to speak his innermost thoughts. Mayhaps because not too long ago, their roles were reversed, and she, in the midst of dealing with what seemed an impossible choice, shared her sentiments with him under an endless, star-studded sky.

The closest thing to the stars here is the single candle lighting the edges of his vision, the stalactites with their tips gleaming with hints of dew and precious minerals. The prince in him wishes he could have at least provided a better venue for his selfishness, something more stimulating – and, dare he say, a touch more intimate – than an underground cavern filled with beleaguered, fitfully-sleeping soldiers.

“Rebuild it, then,” he hears suddenly, and Hien looks down to see Odzaya’s craned neck as she stares up at those same stalactites. Her gaze is half-lidded, her lashes fluttering when she blinks, as if she fights to keep her eyes open. Still, her voice rings quiet but clear in his ears. “The land will still be there, will it not?” she asks. “And so will the potential. And even if not, there is nothing stopping you from building something entirely new, perhaps even better, than what was there before.”

Would it be so simple a thing to do? he wonders. Of course not, and yet she makes it sound so, as if she speaks from the very knowledge she declared she did not have. He recalls her previous words, about undone ties; remembers the blanket she lovingly placed around the twins’ shoulders, and how the look in her eye was the same she had when Cirina first recognized and ran for her in Reunion’s square. “Is that what you’ve done in Eorzea, then?” he asks, just as quiet. “Settled a new land, with a new tribe to call your own?”

Odzaya huffs, just a lazy breath gusting past her lips. “In a way, I suppose. But…” She pauses, then shifts slightly, the creak of the stool almost startling in the silence. “It is what I am trying to do here, too. Rebuild that which I undid, hopefully into something better.”

Then she snorts, her tone turned half-cynical, such a contrast to the soft look in her eye when she angles the candlelit line of her neck to look at him. “Or mayhaps I am merely like you,” she says, smirking. “Another Fire Walker.”

No, she does not make it sound simple, Hien thinks, rendered momentarily speechless in the wake of her admittance. She merely makes it sound possible. A subtle power entirely separate from her ability to move the earth and control the stars; the kind of power that, in the right hands, can move minds, strengthen hearts. And build nations.

Quite the woman, this Warrior of the West.

“If you are,” he says, grinning and feeling just a little awed, as if he is seeing the stars, after all, in a place wholly unexpected, “I will consider it the highest of compliments to be called thus.”

Odzaya’s eyes narrow in amusement, two glowing shards of an ember ignited by the wick. “I would not,” she says bluntly, and Hien cannot resist another hearty guffaw.

The little sake left remains untouched, after that. He is drunk already, after all, and keenly feeling the effects as the world gently spins around him, threatening at any moment to turn upside down. Every noise is a distant, muffled thing: the creak of a chair, the murmur of idle conversation, Gosetsu’s snores, as well as the quiet breath expelling from Odzaya as he watches her ever-so-slowly succumb to slumber. It surprises him, at first; on their journey across the Steppe, her eyes were always the last to slip shut, and the first to open in the pre-dawn. A habit born of a turbulent past, or simply a quirk? Regardless, now she is utterly still, draped over the table as she is, a comical mirror image of Gosetsu’s still-slumbering form. The single candle gilds her horns and the scales adorning her face gold, heats the soft ropes of her hair purple to pink. Strangely enough, her eyes are also slit the barest bit open – as if she fought slumber only for it to sneak past her defenses – the thinnest sliver of limbal red showing past her dark lids, like the sun just beginning to peek out from the horizon.

Mayhaps it is too presumptuous, given what awaits us on the morrow, he thinks, fighting his own daze as he watches the gentle in and out of her breath, but if the spirits of fortune dare to smile upon us, I would invite you to return here one day, when I can give you my due best of a proper royal’s welcome. That, and show you what I and mine have built with the courage you have given us.

He briefly contemplates leaving once more, to ensure that she – and Gosetsu – are not disturbed, before ultimately settling into place. She has kept steady vigilance near from the moment they met; he can do so for one remainder of a night. In the ensuing silence, his gaze once more on the stars he cannot see, it comes to him again: the deliberate loss of his past, as well as the future it will bring.

“Fire Walker,” he murmurs to himself, and smiles.

A fitting title, after all. And one he will wear proudly.


End file.
